


Welcome to Clone Clan

by Darkrealmist



Category: Magic: The Gathering (Card Game)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angels, Animals, Card Games, Character Study, Clones, Dimension Travel, Elves, Fantasy, Forests, Gen, Giants, Gods, Invasion, Kaldheim (Magic: The Gathering), Magic, Meta, Monsters, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Shapeshifting, Snow and Ice, Vikings, War, Wordcount: 100-1.000, Wordcount: 500-1.000, Wordcount: Under 10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:40:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28773231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrealmist/pseuds/Darkrealmist
Summary: On Kaldheim, Moritte of the Frost is confided a serious task by Cosima, god of the sea. First rule of Clone Clan: Don’t talk about Clone Clan.





	Welcome to Clone Clan

Welcome to Clone Clan

Author’s Note: Enjoy the story and R&R.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to or of _Magic: The Gathering_.

Card Reference: <http://gatherer.wizards.com/Pages/Card/Details.aspx?multiverseid=503839>

Summary:

On Kaldheim, Moritte of the Frost is confided a serious task by Cosima, god of the sea. First rule of Clone Clan: Don’t talk about Clone Clan.

* * *

A reindeer loped through the snow on the rims of its hooves, moving briskly between the pines of the Aldergard. While the cold that blew in the human realm of Bretagard could be remorseless, it wasn’t knifelike like the winds of Karfell or violently unpredictable as the geological instability of Surtland.

Racing against the blessing of Jorn, god of weather, the deer froze mid-galop and its pelt fluttered, briefly taking on a form akin to the aurora of the Cosmos, before assuming a semi-humanoid shape. Where the new figure landed, the white ground beneath the changeling’s travelling cloak rippled, creating a circular rune in the snow-covered plain.

Moritte was a shapeshifter from Littjara. The species wore beautiful masks with animal motifs; Moritte’s, with the antlers of a strong elk, sharp like icicles and protruding like the World Tree’s roots into the sky, where the Light of Starnheim supplied the Ten Realms their only sun.

These antlers appeared too heavy for any besides the giants. But what was it the warrior-races of Kaldheim sang of? By Birgi’s horn, they loved to boast!

Moritte stared through the mask at the faceless haven the blizzard spared. A woodland chasm nature or the Cosmos Serpent carved out of the icy rock – common, if not for the ominous skull keeping watch over the opening. But there was magic here. Old magic. The air sharpened toward the skull’s horns, between which the sundog from the Hall of Valkyries shone.

Moritte felt everywhere and nowhere. This place seemed unbound by logic, just beyond the real, and would have been incredibly disorienting were it not for Moritte’s birthplace.

In Littjara, reality constantly fluctuated, hazy and mutable as the sea.

On the topic of the sea, that was the reason Moritte came: to see the god of the sea.

Trudging on a walking stick out of winter and into the cave, Moritte found Cosima.

She stood proud upon a stone as she would upon the stempost of her longboat. Moritte memorized every feature. Her hair, cape, and Tyrite markings. After all, she expected Moritte to play her for a while.

Unpermitted, no foolish devil would impersonate a member of the god-family. The impostor who did would certainly suffer a dishonourable, unheroic fall down the World Tree itself.

The Skoti weren’t the shapeshifters’ gods. Those were the Einir, forerunners Cosima and her relations ousted. Ancestors to Skemfar’s wood and shadow elves.

Yet Moritte’s oaths transcended jarls. The Einir were trapped. Shapeshifters adapt.

Combining the ritualized talents of Gladewalkers and Covewalkers, a blue glow flowed under Moritte’s mask, and the green glow of Moritte’s true form grew.

One blink later, Cosima studied her duplicate. Her perfect clone.

“A monster raids the realms. Stories of a terrible beast run ashore that even has Alrund concerned. Voyage now, Moritte of the Frost! We, the gods, will evaluate this interesting rarity’s trail, and you will observe Kaldheim for me in my stead! Sagas shall be sung in your name!”

Moritte’s vow to Cosima transcended reputation as well. Shapeshifters, in contrast to Vikings or the Skoti, treasured secrecy. Anonymity. They committed acts to whet their curiosity, not to announce their vainglorious deeds.

Don’t talk. Live silent lives in the skin of others, then return to Pentafjord Lake to die. That was the true Omenpath.


End file.
